


In the Eye of a Hurricane

by Winterwatcher27



Series: Hamilton One-Shots (?) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is a Mess, Canon Era, Drabble, Gen, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27242077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwatcher27/pseuds/Winterwatcher27
Summary: Hamilton just won't stop at two things: writing, and complaining about Jefferson.So, he does the most Hamiltonian thing ever; he writes against Jefferson in an act of spite, and continues to swirl down in a spiral of thought.
Series: Hamilton One-Shots (?) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989037
Kudos: 7





	In the Eye of a Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to make this the beginning to a story, but I got tired.  
> (Also I may have implied inner jamilton but shushhhhh.)

The world in which writings were made is captivating, with the candlelight dancing along the walls and the shadows creeping behind them. The darkness curved around its enemy, light to say, taunting it until it manipulated the other's movement and won, burning out any hopes of light taking power. Along the shadow tinted walls was almost nothing except for an original print of the Federalist Papers, hung slanted and awkwardly against the wood, unlike the author that wrote most of it, who was sitting in a chair at his desk, scratching away all thoughts of his debt plan in the deadly hours of the night. The quill he was using was very worn, ready to break any moment even though it was only bought yesterday, and the man holding it chuckled at the sentimental fact that he had put down so many words that were ready to destroy anyone against him. 

Unlike the walls, his desk held piles and piles of papers, letters, compromises, and works he liked to call 'fan literature', which were just a few letters dripping with compliments from random people that he didn't even know. They were almost useless, sure, but he still kept them as he was getting less and less every cabinet meeting. They were a reminder that some people still thought of him postively... unlike Thomas Jefferson.

The man was full of spite. He seemed like he was made just to press Alexander's buttons and get in his way. A hurricane of sorts (Hamilton himself wasn't a hurricane, as he was described. There was silence in the middle of a hurricane, but, however, Hamilton was never silent, unlike Jefferson who always took time for himself, the bitch). His opinions were trash. Little to no proof, vomit worthy accent surrounding the words of a rich, slave beating politician. Magenta coat? Who the fuck wears that? And his opinions of 'the people' and what was good for 'the people'? Sure. Alexander knew he was using the excuse of freedom to get his way, and he smirked when he recalled how it didn't work anyway; the president always sided with himself. And...

The Treasury Secretary snickered in deep, poisonous thought, gripping the quill tight as it dripped mindlessly onto his desk, luckily avoiding any papers. His mind was being altered with plans of demise, ways to jerk and twist around Jefferson's own ideals to fit his own. If he completed it a certain way, used President Washington's approval to his advantage, and spoke out with the current paper he was writing, he could possibly knock the Democratic-Republicans out of the Congress floor, a winner's trophy on his back. It was complicated, and he was only figuring out phase one, phase two being empty and phase three hanging with a limp 'profit'. Hamilton started to try and find a blank sheet of parchment to write down his attack, before coming up with nothing and realizing it was better left off this way: his life-long, old friend new enemy, Aaron Burr, had answered "I don't so I don't get caught" when Alexander had asked why he never took notes or pulled out a quill. Fucking genius, Burr was. That's what Hamilton's younger self thought, whenever bullets were flying above his head and the color red gave everyone a rush of anxiety. Now that both men were older, Hamilton despised him, perhaps more than he did Jefferson. At least the Secretary of State had morals and a plan, while Burr was a good-for-nothing, slimy senator who hid behind whatever the media said.

He was getting sidetracked. "Don't compare, don't engage", is what Hamilton remembered a face-less friend telling him long, long ago. Perhaps it was Burr, yet again, but the aura of the man that popped up was happy and bright, a fragment of an older life where nothing was complicated. It could've been anyone, really, an intimate best friend or a nameless stranger. 

Hamilton buried his head in his ink-stained hands, mind whirling with too much thought, too many ideas. Oh, did he have ideas. Ones that wrecked, ones that built, ones that tore and paid and cried and bled. His plans for the future could be counted as sabotage and sinful to some, or genius and remarkable to others. It all depended on their knowledge and pride to argue against him.

See, not many people would fight Hamilton and counter his ideas, much less fully have the opposite idea and make a complete fool of him and his Federalist ways: to most everyone, Hamilton was the God of words, and if someone tried to down him with his own creation, they would be crushed immediately. But of course, one person stomped on this ridiculous 'theoretical approach' with a polished shoe and decided to come at Hamilton full force, to push him to the limit and consistently annoy him intellectually day by day.

Thomas Jefferson was something short of a miracle for Hamilton's upmost rivaling party, the Democratic-Republicans, who thereafter took full force and chose Jefferson as their leader of sorts. No one else had strangled Hamilton like Jefferson did, and ever since he showed up in his flashy, magenta coat, the two secretaries were something of an infamous, war-driven pair. 

...Hadn't Hamilton already rambled about Jefferson and his stupid self that evening? Hamilton groaned and let his head fall into the piles of papers he could be editing at the moment, seemingly too occupied on this one man that made his political career a living Hell. Even though he hated him with all his gut, Alexander still couldn't get the southerner out of his mind. He was always there, taunting and cursing, even when he was not. Hamilton groaned again. He would never forget when his old friend James Madison tiredly mumbled, "You and Thomas are relentless. You two won't stop talking about the other, and not only is is annoying and pointless, but if I didn't know better, I'd think you two'll flirting."

That statement had Alexander bubbling up numbers more than any other insult. How could Madison think that? It wasn't that the idea of flirting with another man was disgusting - Alexander winced at the thought of his late lover, John Laurens - but it was the person stated. How could anyone love that piece of shit, much less, Hamilton, his rival. 

Alexander suddenly jerked up, disturbed all over again. He sneered, hating having emotions taking him down, and snatched his pen, releasing all of his worries and stressfullness onto paper, writing away the future of the opposing party and their leader, especially.

**Author's Note:**

> This might actually turn into a story, as I do have more writing(s) to uncover.


End file.
